


he's nothing you love, but you love him anyway.

by grandstander



Category: Bleach
Genre: M/M, an old crackish ship im posting old pieces for, but lmao talk 2 me if ur interested in this ship winky emoji, cause i liked the writing, please dont look at me dont judge me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 13:21:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2694602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandstander/pseuds/grandstander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ichigo tells himself time and time again he doesn’t love Bazz-B; what is there to love, anyway? He could never possibly be with him this way, yet here he was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	he's nothing you love, but you love him anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> seriously just a crack ship im WAY too invested in  
> old writing, though

His lips are rough when Ichigo feels them against his own; dry and cracked, but little does he care. They’re warm, at least, but Bazz-B is always burning with warmth (never in a kind way, he’s not home and he’s not there to be a comfort), in the way a forest fire rages and burns whatever stands in its path. They meet in a rather brash manner, sloppy, but he doesn’t quite care. Ichigo doesn’t want to be treated as if he’s something placed on a pedestal; he wants to feel alive, wants to feel the world burning around him in his youth, and all of that is what Bazz-B is. 

The kiss ceases, slowly receding into several lazily placed chaste ones before the contact stops all together, but their breath still mingles and the world isn’t moving around them. There’s a sharp inhale from Ichigo, the taller having bowed his head and buried his nose against the younger’s smoothly defined collarbone, Bazz-B’s breath washing over his skin slowly and solemnly. His arms entail, wrapping around Ichigo’s slim waist in a manner so that he has to let his hips bow forward and Bazz-B is practically curled around him and Ichigo’s arms are clinging to his shoulders and neck. They don’t speak, only stand that way for some time, then slowly Bazz-B returns to the manner of before with his lips pressed against the other’s neck, a groan leaving Ichigo in turn (the sound more of irritation than anything). 

His lips still taste of cigarettes when they kiss again, and his skin smells of cheap cologne and liquor— as always. In any other manner, such things would cause the boy’s lip to curl, the smells and tastes more often than not something putrid to him, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care right now, nor will he ever care when it comes to Bazz-B. 

Ichigo had long since allowed his mind to become muddled and numb, his body reacting in time with the actions of the one who held the unfitting title of lover to Ichigo. Ichigo can’t think of Bazz-B in that manner (he’s not sure he ever can), because a lover is something romantic, something that causes the heart to swell and twist, something that makes the heart flutter, but Bazz-B is none of those things. He’s harsh, rough, he’s something of the city’s west side when love is most often compared to the sun and spring flowers or the breath of fall and sunsets on the horizon. He’s never been those things (and Ichigo doesn’t want him any other way). 

Their movements are languid, as if moving underwater with deep inhales of one another as fingers brush against skin and flesh and lips meet. Ichigo, in all logical sense, should of pulled away, should of pried himself of the rough hands against his back and the lips on his own, but his body was unresponsive to the impulse. Of course, the boy knows better; often times he tells himself that this is it, this is the final dance, but these sorts of things are much easier in thought than they are in action. 

All of these ambitions of the mind dies in the second they are born, smothered and suffocated under the pressure of desire and intimacy. Reason often dies in matters of the heart (Ichigo’s had died as soon as he had fell into Bazz-B’s arms and become lost in his kiss). It’s almost as if these actions, Bazz-B himself, are lined in nicotine and each time he kisses Ichigo there’s a burning craze for another, and another, and another… 

It’s eating him up from the inside, destroying his resolve and sense of reason. 

Even when the other pulls away, he can still feel the lingering burning warmth on his skin and he can taste him on his lips. In an act of disolving mentality, his fists curl around the rough-edged leather of Bazz-B’s collar, jerking the taller male forward into another kiss. It’s rougher, more about the touch and heat, the texture— he doesn’t care for the gentleness or for dancing around the edges at the moment, a simple yet enveloping desire swells in his body, and so he succumbs to it without a fight. Ichigo gave up fighting such a feeling of the heart long ago. 

The stereo fills the silence, a sound of soft drums filtering through and a warm, swelling bass picking in tune together. It sounds like something you’d find in an old film with a muffled, tender voice coming with the tune with rising notes so that the song sounds like a musical compilation of bliss. It’s pleasant, really, the moment in itself is pleasant. Despite having told himself again and again ‘ _This is the last time_ ’, that he won’t be back here with Bazz-B again, no matter the resolve and will he put into such a thought, it melted away as soon as the two came together. Reason dissolved with his kiss and logic was hidden under the sounds of music and slurred whispers, so that his mind was nothing but fuzzy— as if drunken on the moment. 

Ichigo tells himself time and time again he doesn’t love Bazz-B; what is there to love, anyway? He could never possibly be with him this way, yet here he was. Shoulder to shoulder with his guitar in his lap and the other with a cigarette on the lips he’d been kissing minutes before (and would probably kiss again soon), the thoughts continued to slip again. Perhaps this was how it out to be. This moment— this moment alone. With the deep, rich sounds of his fingers picking at the cords to match the music behind them, with Bazz-B letting his weight lean against Ichigo, turning so that Ichigo could taste the faint taste of the cigarette he was smoking. This moment was fine. 

Bazz-B wasn’t someone to love, but this moment was something— something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He didn’t try to; with Bazz-B, there wasn’t quite a point to even  _try_. This was simply how things were, how they were. 

Perhaps this was okay, after all. 

                  — _Yeah, this was okay_.


End file.
